A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘Matthew! What are you going on about?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘It’s the beginnings of your new school.’

  What? ‘My school?’

  ‘Yes. I thought, well . . .’ And it all came out in a rush. ‘I thought we could get married because I love you, Lucy, I really do, and we could build your school right here and all you’d have to do is walk out the back door in the mornings to go to work. I can afford to pay for the building work, just, and I’ve been to the bank and I can get a loan to pay for the furnishings and other costs, though it would mean I’d have to be your business partner if you don’t mind that, but I could be a silent partner and I really would be silent, I promise. You’d make all the decisions and run everything exactly how you want to. Please say yes.’

  Lucy felt like someone had slapped her in the face. ‘But . . . how can I teach and run a school while I’m being your wife? Who’ll look after the house and make your suppers?’

  ‘We’ll get a housegirl. Everyone else has one.’

  ‘I don’t want any babies,’ she blurted. ‘I won’t have time.’

  ‘Then we’ll wait until you do. And if one comes along anyway, we’ll get a nurse.’

  He really had thought it all out.

  Knowing she was being too blunt and was testing him cruelly — but she had to know — she blurted, ‘Do I have to marry you to get the school?’

  His face didn’t just fall, it collapsed. But he rallied quickly. ‘No, you don’t. I’ll build it for you anyway.’

  Warmth and a fluttery lightness flooded her chest: it was what she’d needed to hear. ‘Then, yes, Matthew, I’ll marry you. Thank you.’

  ‘You will? Really?’ Matthew looked utterly astonished. ‘Bloody hell!’

  She snorted with laughter, inadvertently firing a remarkably elastic thread of snot out of her nose, which rebounded and stuck to her nostril. In horror she clapped a hand over it, her face aflame. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’

  Matthew laughed and laughed, got out his hanky, pulled her hand away and wiped her nose. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. You’re a schoolmistress, you must be used to snotty noses.’

  ‘But not my own! And not in front of my fiancé!’

  ‘Your fiancé.’ Matthew grinned. ‘I like that.’

  Bored and annoyed at having been relegated to the enquiries counter yet again, Police Constable Benjamin Woodcock was tidying the drawer below the grille for something to do when he found the letter he’d stuffed in there over a week earlier. Some raddled old hag had brought it in for the attention of Police Superintendent Rossi, claiming it was evidence of a murder and demanding payment for it — five pounds, if he remembered rightly. Something ridiculous, anyway. He’d told her remuneration might be forthcoming if it turned out there actually was a body in this Mrs Elizabeth Hislop’s cellar, but not until then, and she’d said she didn’t want remuneration, she wanted payment, the stupid cow. In any case, Captain Rossi had been on leave, so he’d stuck the letter in the drawer and forgotten about it.

  Captain Rossi was still away, so, just in case there was something to the letter even though it was over a year old, he took it through to Assistant Police Magistrate Bloodworth.

  ‘Looks like it’s been written by an imbecile,’ Bloodworth said, turning the letter over, then reading it a second time. ‘D’you think it’s genuine?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Ever been in the Siren’s Arms?’

  ‘I have, actually, sir. Not a bad pub.’

  ‘Why does Elizabeth Hislop’s name ring a bell?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, go and find out.’

  Constable Woodcock did, and was back in half an hour. ‘Her husband, Gilbert Hislop, disappeared just before Christmas seven years ago, before my time, sir. He was a sea captain, and due to sail out. The ship had to leave with a replacement captain at the helm. Hislop’s friend, William Butler, reported him missing, but his wife never did. Officers spoke to her at the Siren’s Arms, and she confirmed he’d vanished. Said she had no idea where. William Butler was of the opinion the wife had something to do with the disappearance, but nothing was ever proven.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Bloodworth stroked his fat cheek thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we’d better go and have a look. Send Senior Constable Durrant, will you?’

  Jack barged straight into Elizabeth’s office without knocking. ‘The police are next door. You’d better come.’

  Poised over her ledger, pen in hand, Elizabeth stared at him, alarmed. ‘At the pub? Why?’

  ‘Dunno but they want to talk to you.’

  Her heart pounding, Elizabeth put aside her pen, wiped a splodge of ink off her finger and pushed back her chair. At least they hadn’t come to the brothel, so please God they weren’t here about that. ‘How many?’

  ‘Three. Grab your hat and shawl. I said you’d popped up the street.’

  Jamming her hat on her head, she followed Jack down the alleyway to the Siren’s Arms. At the tall gate, Jack paused and peeped through the hole above the latch. Ivy was waiting on the steps of the pub’s back entrance, and gave a nervous little wave.

  ‘We’re clear,’ Jack said and opened the gate.

  ‘Where are they?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘In the public bar.’

  ‘Drinking my beer, I suppose.’

  ‘Durrant isn’t.’

  Elizabeth relaxed very slightly. She knew Senior Constable Durrant: he was honest, polite and reasonably fair — unusual qualities for a Sydney peeler — but, unfortunately, he was also determined and lived by the letter of the law.

  His colleagues were drinking her beer, but at least Al the barman had given them the cheap stuff.

  ‘Good morning, Constable Durrant,’ Elizabeth said, removing her hat and patting the curls of her wig into place. ‘How nice to see you. I’m so sorry I wasn’t in. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Good day to you, Mrs Hislop. I have cause to inspect your cellar.’

  For an awful second Elizabeth thought her legs were going to collapse and send her crashing to the floor. Christ almighty, Friday had been right. She made herself take a step, then another, and another until she was walking to the bar. ‘Al, get out the good brandy, will you? Constable Durrant, a tipple?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you.’

  ‘Lads?’ Elizabeth asked the junior constables, who eyed each other, grinned and nodded keenly. ‘My beer cellar, Constable Durrant?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘unless you have others.’

  Elizabeth gave a little laugh. ‘No, just the one. May I ask why you need to inspect it?’

  ‘That I can’t say at this point.’

  ‘Well, then, please, go right ahead. Jack, please show Constable Durrant down to the cellar.’

  Cellar, cellar, cellar! Every time she said or heard the bloody word she saw in her mind’s eye Gil, folded into his lead-lined tomb, the rotted remnants of his clothing draped over his disjointed bones. Thank God she’d finally let Friday move him. The fact that he’d been hidden beneath the brothel and not the Siren’s Arms didn’t lessen her shock and fear. The police were so close. And who had told them? Not Friday, surely.

  ‘Much obliged for your cooperation,’ Durrant said. ‘And put that brandy down, you two.’

  She followed them down to the beer cellar, half imagining (dreading) that Gil and his trunk might have magically appeared down there.

  But he hadn’t. There was nothing but barrels of beer, and hogsheads of brandy, gin, whisky and rum arrayed on sturdy shelves.

  ‘Mind if I have a look around?’ Durrant asked.

  ‘Feel free.’

  He wandered along the larger of the barrels, tapping as he went. Does he think I pickled him? Elizabeth wondered. Then he peered into corners, moving aside piles of sacks and stamping on a couple of cockroaches and a monstrous spider for good measure. The floor was rock and beaten earth, but he had a good stare at it anyway.

  ‘Nothing underneath th
is?’

  ‘Only hell.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Durrant took out a notebook, wrote something in it, then put it away again. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Hislop.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Constable. Might I ask now what you were looking for?’

  ‘You can ask but I can’t tell you.’ Durrant touched the brim of his hat. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

  Jack saw them off the premises anyway. When he came back he found Elizabeth sitting at the bar, halfway through a brandy.

  ‘What the fuck did they want?’ he said, pouring one for himself.

  ‘I really don’t know.’

  He looked at her sideways. ‘You do, though, don’t you?’

  Elizabeth’s elbows slid forwards and she covered her face with her hands. ‘Look, Jack, just don’t ask, all right?’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ Bloodworth asked. He tossed the badly written letter onto his desk. ‘The work of a crackpot, then. I said as much.’

  Durrant pursed his lips. ‘Not necessarily. I was inclined to believe William Butler when he said he thought Elizabeth Hislop might have had something to do with her husband’s disappearance.’

  ‘Have it in for her, did he?’

  ‘No. Quite the opposite. And he didn’t exactly say it, either. That was the deduction we made at the time.’

  ‘Well, what did he say, then?’ Bloodworth was getting a bit sick of Durrant: he never said one word when twelve would do. Also it was dinnertime and he was starving.

  ‘Without saying so outright, because Gilbert Hislop was a good mate of his, apparently Hislop could be a bit free with his fists, especially in his cups, and by all accounts he was often in his cups. And according to Butler, it was more often than not Elizabeth Hislop who bore the brunt of Hislop’s temper when he was at home. Butler made a comment along the lines of, “I always said I wouldn’t blame her if one day she did something about it.” When asked to elaborate, he said he meant he wouldn’t blame her if she left him, but I — we — suspected he might have been referring to something else.’

  ‘Where’s this Butler now?’

  ‘Long gone. He was a seaman.’

  ‘Damn. Look, all right, keep an eye on her for a while.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Very good. Now, if anyone wants me I’m off to the Australian for steak and kidney pudding.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Friday!’ Elizabeth called as she clattered past in her high-heeled boots.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can I talk to you for a minute, please?’

  God. Friday had just done a cully and was hot and sweaty and in her flogging gear. Couldn’t Mrs H wait till she’d at least had a wipe down, a cup of tea and a smoke? ‘Hang on.’

  She asked Hazel to be a love and make her a tea, grabbed her pipe fixings and traipsed into the office.

  ‘Sit down, dear,’ Elizabeth said. ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Throbs a bit when I’m working hard, but not bad.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  Friday leant forwards and Elizabeth had a look.

  ‘What a nice, neat scar. James did a lovely job of sewing it up, didn’t he?’

  ‘Dunno, haven’t been able to see it.’

  ‘When did you start drinking again?’ Elizabeth asked.

  Friday blinked at her. That caught her off guard. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I’ve smelt it on you and I can smell it now.’

  ‘Well, do you blame me? I nearly died! You’d drink, too, if you’d been shot in the head and lived to tell the tale.’

  Elizabeth snorted. ‘Oh, rubbish. That’s not the reason. You drink because you have to.’

  ‘What do you know about it?’ Friday knew she sounded like a sulky child — like Hannah, actually — which only irritated her even more.

  ‘A lot, and you know it.’ Elizabeth pointed at her. ‘I’m putting you on notice.’

  ‘Suit yourself. What sort of notice?’

  ‘Your job. Come to work smelling of alcohol just once more, and that’s it, I’m letting you go. It’s for your own good, Friday.’

  In a silly voice, Friday parroted, ‘“It’s for your own good, Friday.”’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘Oh dear, I had hoped getting shot in the head might have knocked some sense into you, but it hasn’t, has it?’

  Oh, fuck off.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourself?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Well, so be it. I’ve said all I’m going to about that. Did you know the police were at the pub on Wednesday?’

  ‘Jack said they were looking around in the cellar. What for?’

  ‘They didn’t say but it’s obvious, isn’t it? Gil.’

  ‘Wrong cellar, but.’ Friday frowned. ‘Who the hell told them? Only you and I know.’ And Sarah and Walter, but it certainly wouldn’t have been them.

  ‘Not you?’

  It wasn’t even a real question, but Friday got on her high horse anyway, in revenge for the comments about her drinking. ‘No, it was not fucking well me!’

  ‘I didn’t think so. But no one else knows. Do they?’

  ‘No,’ Friday lied. ‘Unless . . . no, she couldn’t have.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Molly didn’t like you. But she didn’t know about Gil.’

  ‘Maybe she did.’ Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t trust her not to have snooped around. She stole from here, you know. She helped herself to one of my rings. It was probably her that tried to break into the safe, too. But she’s been well and truly dead for a year.’

  Friday decided it was time she raised the issue that had been festering away in the dark recesses of her mind. ‘You’d know, too, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, we all remember Molly,’ Elizabeth said dryly.

  ‘No, I mean you’d know because you drowned her.’

  Elizabeth held her gaze for a long, long moment. ‘She wasn’t your friend, Friday.’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Will you despise me if I say yes?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  Hazel came in with a cup of tea and set it on the desk next to Friday’s chair. ‘Ta, love.’

  They waited until she’d closed the door behind her.

  ‘I had to,’ Elizabeth said. ‘She was getting you into trouble —’

  ‘Oh, she was not!’

  ‘She was. She was getting you into trouble then just walking away from it. Then when I told her I was letting her go she threatened to tell the governor about the convict girls I employ here. Girls like you. Christ, the fact that I operate a brothel would be enough to send me to gaol. So I had to do something to shut her up.’

  ‘So you drowned her.’

  ‘She was absolutely swattled. I just helped her . . . not get out of the water.’

  ‘So that’s two now?’

  ‘Yes, it is, if you must keep score.’

  Friday sighed and slumped in her seat. ‘There’ll be a price to pay one day, you know.’

  ‘Probably. And when the time comes, I’ll pay it. Not in gaol, though. I’ll never go to gaol again. I’m too old. I couldn’t bear it. What about you? Will you pay the price?’

  ‘I’ll have to, I suppose.’

  Elizabeth said, ‘I doubt it was Molly who told the police about Gil. Not from beyond the grave. That’s a bit unlikely.’

  Is it? Friday wondered. ‘This from someone who sits around talking to a skeleton?’

  ‘That’s different. I talk to Gil’s memory.’

  ‘You don’t, though, do you? If it was just his memory, you wouldn’t still need his bones. You’d be happy for him to be buried in a graveyard like normal dead folk are.’

  ‘He is buried in a graveyard.’

  ‘But not —’

  Someone knocked.

  ‘Christ, now what? Come in!’ Elizabeth called.

  It was Hazel again. She handed Friday a letter. ‘This has just come for you. A lad brou
ght it.’

  An unpleasant ripple of foreboding skittered up Friday’s spine. She broke the seal and read the note.

  Friday Wolfe, Harrie Clarke, Sarah Morgan,

  I believe murder trumps the illegal importation of preserved heads any day. And I do not believe you do have proof.

  The demand for £300 stands. If you wish to continue living your comfortable, pampered, deceitful lives, be at the stable yard of the Harp and Angel on York Street on Sunday the 28th at six o’clock. The choice is yours.

  BS

  ‘Deceitful?’ Friday squawked. ‘She’s calling us fucking deceitful?’

  ‘Thank you, Hazel,’ Elizabeth said.

  Hazel took the hint and left.

  ‘Bella?’

  Friday nodded. ‘She doesn’t believe we’ve got proof about the heads. Stupid bitch.’

  ‘Well, go to the governor, then.’

  ‘We can’t. She’ll tell the police about Keegan.’

  ‘Will she really? She might be bluffing about not believing you. She’s not stupid, you know.’

  ‘No, I know she isn’t.’ Friday scratched at a pimple on her bare leg as she thought about Bella’s note for a moment. ‘I’ll see what the others reckon. It might be time to talk to Bella face to face.’

  Friday and Aria stood just beyond the gates of Bella’s house at the end of Cumberland Street, contemplating the brutal-looking pair of dogs glaring back at them from the other side, strings of drool dangling from their mouths.

  ‘We should have brought Walter,’ Friday said. ‘He’s got a way with dogs.’

  ‘We should have brought a pistol,’ Aria said. ‘They would make very handsome cloaks.’

  ‘Becky! Louisa!’ Friday bellowed. ‘Get your fat arses out here!’

  Nothing for nearly five minutes, then finally Becky appeared at an upstairs window. Wrestling with the sash, she shoved it up and shouted, ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Charming,’ Aria remarked.

  Friday said, ‘They always are.’ She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, ‘Is Bella in? I want to talk to her.’